


Seven Days

by Miri1984



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Minor Surgical Procedure, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, chilling in an anti magic cell, just two guys, six feet away from each other because there are adamantine bars in the way, touches on how wilde got the scar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-08-11 03:24:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20146816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984
Summary: Oscar Wilde let someone get too close to him and paid the price. He's definitely not doing that again. Nope. Not ever. Nosirree.





	1. Day 1: Oscar

They hadn’t built the cell with the idea that one of them would have to be in it. 

“At least I won’t have to wear the shackles to sleep,” Oscar said, trying for lightness.

“You’re saying that like you actually sleep when you have them on,” Zolf grumbled. 

“I’m a busy man.”

“Not for the next week you’re not.” Zolf hesitated at the bars, raised a hand. “Look, at _ least _ let me heal you…”

“No. It could be passed magically. You don’t do _ anything _ to endanger yourself.”

“You could have healed it yourself before we came down here!”

Oscar clenched his jaw, the skin around his wound pulling unpleasantly. He’d reached for magic, instinctively, after the fight, but something had held him back. Perhaps he was just out of practice, since the shackles, since Grizzop had…

“Just get me something to clean it up with. I’ll manage.”

“It’s gonna scar,” Zolf said, and Oscar didn’t wince.

“Good. It’ll remind me not to be so stupid next time.”

“You couldn’t have…”

Oscar shook his head. “We’ve got seven days, Zolf. It’s going to get extremely tiresome down here if the only conversation you want to have with me is about how you don’t think I was completely and utterly stupid. Especially since you’d be _ wrong. _”

“He was your friend.”

“No.” Oscar shut his eyes and saw _ soft ginger hair falling over the bluest eyes Oscar had ever seen, as blue as the web of veins under his skin, glassy, dead and gone _ . He opened them again, focusing instead on Zolf, looking at him. Zolf’s eyes were green, offset by the now bright white of his hair. Zolf’s face was familiar and safe and more importantly, Oscar _ knew him _. “He was dead before I stabbed him, you know that as well as I do.”

Zolf swallowed. “Yeah but you _ didn’t _know that,” he said. “When he made contact.”

“I should have _ suspected. _ At the _ very least.” _

Zolf’s nostrils flared and Oscar cocked an eyebrow at him, daring him to keep talking. “You’re allowed to grieve, Wilde,” Zolf said, finally, voice rough. 

Oscar drew in a breath, upset to hear it shake. “Well. I suppose I’ll have the time.” Zolf looked like he was going to say something else, something to try to comfort him, something… pithy and shaped like a platitude. Oscar could appreciate him trying, but words were Oscar’s specialty, not Zolf’s. “Go get me something for this,” he waved at his face. “I’ll be fine here on my own for a minute or two, you don’t have to fuss over me like I’m a child.”

Zolf hesitated but Oscar just looked at him until he turned to go. 

There was a single chair in the cell, and a cot. They’d kept it clean, at least. Oscar sat on the cot, ashamed at how little strength he had in his limbs. The brief burst of adrenalin, up in the inn, was wearing off, and when he looked down at his hands, they were shaking.

When Zolf came back down he had water, a mirror, needle and thread, and a bottle of sake. “Have you ever stitched a wound before?” he asked. 

“Yes,” he said. 

“On yourself or someone else?”

Oscar’s jaw worked. “My sister,” he said. 

Zolf looked surprised at that. “Didn’t know you had family.”

Oscar reached a hand out the slot in the bars that was meant for food. “Had,” he said, then tilted his head at the look on Zolf’s face. “She didn’t die because of how bad a job I did, if that’s what you’re asking. Another boy threw a rock at her face. Our mother was… not available. So I did what needed to be done.” Zolf did not look entirely reassured, and Oscar made an impatient sound and snatched the bottle out of his hand. Zolf put the rest through the slot more carefully as Oscar uncorked the bottle and took a long swig.

“You’re meant to wash the wound with that, not drink it.” 

“I’m aware,” Oscar took another swig before sitting back on the cot. He dipped a cloth in the water and began to gently wash out the wound. Zolf just stood there. “Gods," Oscar said, "sit _ down, _ Zolf, I know the legs don’t work properly here.”

“I’m sorry,” Zolf said then.

“For what?”

“Bringing up the past?”

“She died nearly twenty years ago,” Oscar said, now wetting the second cloth with the sake. “Fever. Caught it on the trip over from Ireland.” Oscar could remember the thinness of her arms, the smell of the sickness on her breath, the desperate, wheezing breaths she took close to the end. “She was ten,” he said. Was this how it started? Did the disease pull up memories so it could digest them? Feed off them? File them away for use against the people Oscar cared about?  
  
Could he be sure, really, that the face he saw in his mind's eye was really Isola's?

“Like I said. I’m sorry.”

“And like I said, it was a long time ago,” Oscar said, then winced at the sting of the alcohol.

“You never talked about your family before,” Zolf said, and Oscar could hear him making his stiff, clunky way to the only other chair in the basement. He looked up to see Zolf lowering himself down and letting out a small sigh of relief. Without magic, the legs weren’t exactly useless, but they weren’t exactly _good,_ either.

“Families are complicated and usually tiresome,” Oscar said, then picked up the needle. Zolf had threaded it for him, he noticed, and was grateful. He wasn’t quite able to hide the shake in his hands as he raised the mirror up and had a good look at what Alfred had done to him before Oscar _ stabbed him through the heart. _

It was ugly. There was no denying it. A slash that cut down his cheek and nearly clipped his lip (no wonder talking had hurt), lightly curved. Alfred had struck before Oscar could react, but he hadn’t been fast enough and in the end Alfred was dead before the first drops of Oscar’s blood had hit the floor.

Without his magic he’d been forced to learn other ways of dealing with threats.

“Wilde?” Zolf’s voice was hesitant. “You okay?”

He swallowed. “I’m fine,” he said, then positioned the mirror between two of the bars so he could work with his hands free. “I need more light though.” 

He heard Zolf get up again and cursed under his breath for making him do more walking. Oscar should have realised he’d need light as well as the other materials, it was Oscar’s _ job _ to realise these things, to hold the threads in his hands and see the whole picture. It was Oscar’s _ job _to not trust at first sight, to not be so pathetically grateful to see a friendly face, to feel the warmth of a human connection from before the horribleness had begun…

This was a waste of time any way. He might as well just let the wound fester. He wasn’t going to live out the week.

He sat back down on the cot again, hard.

When would it start? Would he even notice when he stopped being himself? How could he even_ know? _

“Wilde?” Again. Zolf’s voice. How many times had he said Oscar’s name? He was standing at the bars, a lantern in his hand. Oscar blinked. Stood. Took the lantern, careful not to touch Zolf’s hand as he did so.

Zolf noticed the care and frowned, but Oscar wasn’t going to start that argument again. He set the lantern on the cot, close enough to give enough light, then moved back to the mirror, needle and thread in hands that had stopped shaking, now. 

He didn’t need to look into his eyes while he worked, and that helped.

When he was done he held up the lantern to inspect the work. He’d downed a good deal of the sake after the first few stitches - the prick of the needle and pull of the thread through his skin had gotten too much more quickly than he would have liked. The final stitches were less than perfect, most certainly because Oscar’s hands were now unsteady from drink rather than nerves.

Zolf had watched the entire process from the chair, hands clasped tightly in his lap. Oscar could feel his disapproval, his worry, the entire time.

“You did okay,” Zolf said, coming to look while Oscar examined his face critically.

Oscar shrugged and tried for a smile, wincing when the line of stitches pulled and warped. “What can I say, I’m good with my hands.”

Zolf rolled his eyes. “Nice to see some things never change.”

“One cannot improve on perfection.”

Zolf let out a small groan. “Well _ one _ could give it a go when _ one’s _ had some sleep,” he said.

Oscar swallowed. He didn’t want to sleep. While he was in no danger from the malicious dreams down here there were still the regular kind. And on top of that now he had the glooming spectre of the passage of time. 

If he slept, would he wake up the same?

“Wilde?”

“I’m _ fine,” _ Oscar snapped. _ Stop asking. _

He felt a sharp, deep stab of grief in his chest. 

“No you’re not,” Zolf said, gently.

It was a simple enough phrase. Not meant to be comforting, but offered out of kindness. _You're not fine. _Azu had said that, on the mountain, and then she'd gone. _If you continue like this you're just going to die, _Grizzop had said, in the temple, while Oscar sat naked and vulnerable and exhausted, _and then he'd gone. _

_ Stop asking if you already know the damned answer, Zolf Smith. _

"Allow a man the dignity of pretense," Oscar said, and his voice didn't crack and he didn't slump on the cot and bury his head in his hands and he _still remembered Isola's face._

Zolf pursed his lips. "You don't have to pretend with me," he said, and maybe that was enough, to tip him over the edge, or maybe he'd fallen a long time ago, because that was when he turned away from the quiet appraisal of the dwarf on the other side of the bars and rested his head on the cool stone of the cell, and that was when the tears began to fall.


	2. Day 1: Zolf

He backed out of the room when he saw that Wilde was crying.

He didn’t think Wilde would care, Zolf being there to witness it. They knew each other too well at this point and  _ gods, _ he’d be the last person to criticise or judge Wilde for actually letting himself show emotion. He’d been prodding for the man to do just that for months, after all. There was a process to healing, and Wilde had spent nearly all of his time since they’d started working together pushing ahead, asking questions, desperately attempting to find the answers that would lead to the world making sense again. Zolf, who’d taken at least some of the time he’d had since Prague to do some self examination, knew the way Wilde was coping was unhealthy and this latest blow wasn’t going to do anything other than compound the problem.

Zolf didn’t know the full details of what Alfred had been to Wilde but he wasn’t born under a rock (not literally any way) and he could make an educated guess, what with the way the other man had looked at him, the way  _ Wilde _ had looked at  _ Alfred, _ the delight on his face (quickly masked) when they’d made contact with the Harlequin's latest agent from London.

Alleged contact.

Messages weren’t getting through properly, not all the time. It had only been a month since they’d managed to set up the cell and take over the inn and Wilde and Zolf were _both_ feeling the pressure of being so far away from Cairo, so far away from what they both saw as the centre of the problem.  _ So far away from the last place Hamid and Sasha had been seen alive. _

It was understandable that Wilde had fallen easily into trust. Oh they’d intended to put Alfred in the cell, most definitely, but Wilde had just wanted one word with him first, one word that had turned into a long conversation and a refused drink, one word that had ended with Alfred dead on the floor and Wilde bleeding and stunned.

Zolf blamed himself of course. He’d stepped out for less than a minute. That had been all the time Alfred  _ not Alfred  _ had needed.

The innkeeper, Ryu, approached him, hesitantly. Zolf had a few words of Japanese but definitely not enough to carry out a conversation. Luckily “get rid of the body” was an easy enough concept to get across, and Ryu knew enough about the nature of their problems to take precautions not to get infected. Similarly “why did you lock up your colleague?” was easy enough to parse. Zolf held up seven fingers and Ryu looked grim. They hadn’t had much cause to use the cell, in the month since they’d been here, but the only other time had not ended well. The thought of the same thing happening to Wilde made Zolf’s stomach twist unpleasantly and he tried his best to think of other things while he prepared a meal to take back down.

Wilde was sitting on the cot when he came back down, hands loosely hanging between his knees. Zolf passed him the food and he ate mechanically, not attempting any conversation. Zolf wasn’t going to press him on it, not yet any way, and busied himself with his own meal. Zolf had taken a fair bit of pride in learning some Japanese dishes, since they’d set up here, although with the language barrier he’d worked by mimicry and Ryu never let him make food for the paying guests, but tonight he’d gone with something more simple and European - a fast cooked stew - with rice instead of the potatoes he  _ would _ have liked, and missed like fire since coming southeast.

Wilde finished it all relatively quickly, though, and Zolf felt a little satisfied at the return of some colour to his cheeks as he passed the bowl back through. 

“You should sleep,” Zolf said and Wilde gave a noncommittal shrug. “I can stay, if you like?”

“You’d have to bring your bedroll down,” Wilde said, then took a breath, possibly noticing how dull his voice had sounded. Zolf certainly had. “Your old bones need a proper bed, Zolf,” he tried again, and this time he sounded a little lighter.

“In human terms I’m probably younger than you, physically,” Zolf said. Following the forms. Keep it light. Wilde raked his eyes up and down Zolf and raised an eyebrow. 

“Go,” he said. “I’ll get some sleep. I promise.”

He probably wouldn’t, but Zolf wasn’t going to start accusing him of lying. Not here. Not yet.


	3. Day 2: Zolf

In the morning he collected breakfast for Wilde and his cane and went back down again. Wilde wasn’t sleeping. Of course he wasn’t.

“Did you even try?” Zolf asked, as Wilde took the tray.

“I slept,” Wilde grumbled back, although the dark circles under his eyes made the lie less easy to swallow. “A little at least. I forgot how deathly dull imprisonment can be.”

“I’ll bring you some books.” Wilde gave him a look and Zolf shrugged. “They’re the only ones we have in English. And you were going to read them eventually.”

“You’re devotion to them is endearing,” Wilde said.

“I’m just a romantic at heart. Anything else you want?”

“There’s a whole lot of paperwork that needs doing.”

Zolf pulled the chair a little closer to the bars and snorted, shaking his head. “You know _ that’s _ not going to get done.”

"Heavens forbid you actually take pen to paper."

"You always check it any way, making me do it first is just a waste of resources."

Wilde snorted, and started to eat. Mechanically, without even looking at what was in front of him, but at least he was _eating_. He was still trying. Following the forms, putting on a good face, pretending there wasn’t an axe poised over his neck.

Gods. Zolf wasn’t thinking about  _ that  _ possibility.  _ Wilde wasn’t infected.  _ Of course he wasn’t, he was just being paranoid and punishing himself for what he saw as a stupid mistake. 

A small, treacherous voice in the back of Zolf’s head wouldn’t quieten, though. 

If he  _ was _ infected someone would have to wield the axe. And that was  _ Zolf’s  _ job.

He could remember how resentful he’d been, when they’d been paired, months ago now, when the situation had been carefully explained to him. There was no such thing as a lone operator any longer, they’d lost too many that way. It was the only way to be sure of someone - pair them up with someone else, and when Curie had told him Wilde had asked for  _ him  _ he’d been utterly bemused and not a little irritated. 

Funny to think that, now. Because the urge to drown Wilde had dissipated, possibly somewhere in Paris when he was helpless and needed them, possibly somewhere along the way of his own personal journey ( _ kiss my arse, Poseidon)  _ or possibly just with the passage of time and the parting of friends. When Wilde and he had finally met, and Zolf had taken in the shorter hair, the dark shadows under his eyes, and Wilde had raised a single eyebrow at Zolf’s boots and his beard, something fundamental had already shifted between them.

All of this meant that Zolf was as stuck in the inn, as surely as Wilde was stuck in the cell, because if he came out the other end of this okay (which he  _ would, _ he was just being stupid, he wasn’t infected, Wilde  _ wasn’t infected)  _ Wilde would need to be as certain of Zolf as Zolf was of him.

Trust was difficult to come by, and Zolf wasn’t going to let Wilde stop giving Zolf his.

Wilde finished the last of his breakfast and set the tray on the floor. Zolf saw him rake a hand through his hair, then stand up. “Right,” he said, and started unbuttoning his shirt.

It wasn’t a big deal. They’d done it before, for their initial quarantine. They would have to go through it again if they ever went back to Cairo. Wilde and Zolf both knew the drill, and if Wilde felt any differently about it than he had then, Zolf couldn’t see any indication of it.

“You’re clear,” Zolf said, keeping any relief he might have felt out of his voice. This was only the second day, after all. 

Wilde nodded, face as carefully blank as Zolf’s voice had been, and began putting his clothes back on. “I’ll get you those books,” Zolf said, gathering up the tray and tucking it under his arm. The cane helped with walking in the anti magic field, but it was still awkward and a little bit painful and he nearly dropped the tray on the way out the door.

“Could you…” Wilde started, behind him, then stopped.

“What?” 

“Bring me a notebook? And some pens.” Zolf raised an eyebrow, and Wilde gave him that same lopsided smile from the night before. Zolf felt his throat constrict in sudden sympathy. “If I  _ am _ to be subjected to low literature I might be inspired to create some of my own.”

Zolf nodded. "Yeah. I can do that for you."

"Thank you, Zolf."


	4. Day 2: Oscar

He didn’t exactly lie to Zolf. He’d laid down on the cot and closed his eyes, and knew he’d dreamt, because when he pushed up the sleeve of his shirt in a panic there were no blue lines webbing under his skin even though the memory of them was plain and clear in his head. He’d laid down on the cot and closed his eyes and he must have slept because if he hadn’t slept then he had been hallucinating those lines _ or perhaps hallucinating the clear skin instead. _

Zolf did him the courtesy of at least pretending to believe him and promised to bring him something to read, and Oscar almost smiled at that. The Harrison Campbell debate had been going sporadically on and off since they’d left Cairo, and Oscar had rolled his eyes every time Zolf slipped into a bookshop on their journey south east, emerging triumphantly whenever he managed to secure a purchase. 

Oscar knew Campbell had managed to escape the turmoil in Europe, and discreet enquiries made Oscar believe Earhart had something to do with that.

He didn’t blame the woman for hating him. He would hate him in her position. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be glad she was on their side.

In any case Oscar had nothing against romantic literature (he’d even written some) but Zolf had been so weirdly defensive about it that he’d chosen to gently rib him as something to pass the time. In truth, that Zolf was offering to lend them to him touched him and for a moment he almost forgot why he was here. 

The reality of it came crashing back down on him when Zolf handed him breakfast through a slot in adamantine bars. He ate it, although it didn’t taste like anything much and sat like lead in his stomach when he was done.

He wasn’t going to wait for Zolf to ask him to strip. They both knew the protocol and Oscar was desperate for someone else to see, really see, for someone else to tell him _ yes _ or _ no. _

_ Or, _ he thought, words crowding through his mind like skittering insects, falling over each other in their haste, desperate to force themselves out somewhere. _ Or would Zolf even bother to say anything would Zolf just turn on his heel and come back with a weapon would Zolf hand him a cup full of poison and trust him to drink it because Zolf knew Oscar well enough to know that right now Oscar would, _ Gods _ Oscar would drink it in one swallow if it meant he didn’t have to worry that he was no longer himself… _

“You’re clear,” Zolf said, his soft, low voice cutting through Oscar’s own panicked internal monologue and Oscar didn’t let out a sigh of relief, this was only day two, after all but his mind quietened somewhat and he was able to get dressed again without his hands shaking.

Day two.

“I’ll get you those books.” 

Oscar opened his mouth, a sudden thought hitting him that seemed absurd at first. He wasn’t going to ask, but when Zolf stumbled on the way out he was almost surprised to hear his own voice.

“Could you bring me a notebook and some pens?” Something to use to let the words out, something to reassure himself that he was himself, something to anchor him back to the Oscar he had been, back in Ireland, before the Meritocrats, before the simulacrum. 

He tried to remember the last thing he’d written that wasn’t a signature on a piece of paperwork or a request for resources. There hadn’t been a poem in years. He thought…. Gods yes, that was it. 

The last thing he’d written other than a letter, the last thing he’d written as Oscar Wilde, commentator on society, the _ old _ Oscar, who led a double life and _ cared _ about public opinion, the Oscar who was famous for _ skewering the upper classes… _

The last thing _ that _Oscar had written had been the article about Bertie. 

Whom Zolf did not know was dead. He’d tried to tell him, but Zolf had compartmentalised everything from before Prague into a box and after a few hesitant words about Hamid and Sasha going to Rome they’d faltered. They did not talk about Bertie because Bertie dying had been the first step on the road to Hamid and Sasha being gone, the first step to losing Azu and Grizzop.

(Grizzop hadn’t needed to go, Grizzop could have stayed, but Oscar had let him go, had given him the information he needed to get in touch with Eldarion, had given in to his desperation to help his friends. Oscar had set him loose to die after Grizzop had _ saved _ him, because apparently that was how Oscar paid his debts, by killing the people he cared about, by killing the people who cared about _ him _). 

They weren’t going to come back, Rome had swallowed them and they were dead, or worse and soon _ Oscar would be too. _

“Yeah,” Zolf said, watching him with calm, considering eyes. “I can do that for you.”

“Thank you Zolf,” Oscar said.

#

“When Passions Collide” occupied him for the afternoon. It was light and easy to skim through quickly, major plot points hammered home so securely and obviously that Oscar could, with a great deal of accuracy, anticipate every story beat.

It wasn’t bad, exactly. Oscar had certainly read worse (and definitely written it, back in the day, although there wasn’t proof of that, not any more, not after he burned a certain trunk of papers he’d begged his mother to let him bring on the ship to England). Oscar was a fast reader, always had been, and could divide his attention between the novel and Zolf, who had taken up residence in a somewhat more comfortable chair on the outside of the cell, reading one of Campbell's more recent volumes (Zolf had read all of them, more than once, but they were short on entertainment on the island). Oscar pretended he didn’t notice Zolf watching him as he turned the pages. It was… delightful, trying to guess which plot point or conversation had finally gotten Zolf hooked - had it been Jessica’s initial reaction to Robert? Or the inevitable betrayal of Henry? Had he preferred the slow burn or was there a reason the pages of the… _ resolution _ chapter were so well thumbed?

Oscar probably didn’t pay enough attention to the actual plot (what there was of it) but it was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon, the act of attempting to get into _ Zolf’s _head far more successful than he could have anticipated at getting him out of his own.

He finished the last line and closed the book, looking up to see Zolf watching him, lips parted with an unspoken question.

“Well,” Oscar said. “That was an experience.”

“Did you like it?”

“I’ve rarely enjoyed a novel more,” Oscar said, and Zolf’s eyes lit up, lips spreading in a smile so wide and bright and genuine that it tugged at Oscar’s heart. 

“Hamid hated it,” Zolf said then. “So… I kind of thought it wouldn’t be your thing.”

“I’m both offended and delighted that you thought I might have similar tastes to Hamid,” Oscar replied laughing a little, before he realised what they'd said. 

For a moment, both of them had forgotten, and Oscar’s gentle chuckle faded into a silence that lasted a second too long.

There it was - a crack - in the lid of the box where all the things that they didn’t talk about lived. 

Oscar didn’t want to open it all the way and a glance at Zolf told him all he needed to know about how Zolf felt about that little slip. So Oscar leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, ignoring the twinge in his cheek when he smiled. “So what did you think about how Jessica reacted to Henry at the manor house in chapter…”

...Oscar was good at covering over conversational faux pas. When it came down to it, so was Zolf, but down here he couldn’t create water in Oscar’s face to stop him from talking and Oscar couldn’t dispel any magic or prestidigitate himself pristine and so he would have to fall back on his original toolset.

They talked up to the time Zolf needed to get food, and as he clumped out of the basement, the click of his cane on the stone sharp and staccato in the humid air, Oscar sat back on the cot and felt… content. More like himself than he had in months, if he could be honest. There was an art and a trick, to being interested in other people, and he’d always had it, always been able to turn it on and off at will, and it was surprisingly easy to do it with Zolf.

And he wasn’t lying. He _ did _ like the book. It fulfilled a need that every person had, to be able to yearn for another person’s yearning. To imagine something and live it without paying the consequences.

He glanced over at the notebook and pens that were sitting on the chair of the cell, untouched as yet. He picked them up, opened the notebook (smooth, lined paper, good quality, Oscar wondered where Zolf had managed to find it) and breathed in the scent of paper.

“So it did inspire you?” Zolf’s voice came from where he was fussing with a tray. A delicious, meaty smell was wafting from it, and Oscar swallowed. 

“In some respects,” Oscar said, but he closed the notebook and set it aside. His mind was still caught up, as it could be sometimes, in story, although he knew people (had known people) in London who would have scorned him for even considering reading in that genre. It was Zolf’s unbridled enthusiasm for the world and the characters that Oscar kept coming back to, where his enjoyment in the text lay.

He wondered, idly, if Zolf would have liked anything that_ Oscar _ wrote… he didn’t seem to have much of a taste for satire, and Oscar doubted he’d attended any literary soirees in the navy or in the temple of Poseidon.

Of his opinion on the Bertie article Oscar was well aware; there could not be much more of a succinct review than a bucket of water to the face.

“What’s got you so smiley?” Zolf asked as he approached the bars with food. Grilled meat and vegetables, tonight, in the Japanese style that Zolf had taken to so quickly. Oscar took the food, less carefully than he had been, distracted by his own thoughts, and his hand brushed against Zolf’s as he took the platter. The shock of warmth in Zolf’s skin nearly made Oscar drop the dish and he steadied it with his other hand, breath coming in a gasp.

_ Gods. _

“Wilde?”

Oscar licked his lips. “Smells great,” he said lightly, turning his back and drawing in another, shaking breath.

Zolf took the tray away with him when he’d finished eating, bidding Oscar a slightly puzzled good night. He hadn’t felt up to discussion during the meal, despite Zolf sitting near him and asking the occasional leading question. Oscar could hear the hurt in Zolf’s voice when he asked him if he was all right, but Oscar didn’t know how to articulate why he couldn’t continue to talk about _ romance _when there was a very real possibility he’d never be allowed to touch anyone again.

_ Alfred had leaned forward and cupped Oscar’s cheek in his hand before he’d swung the dagger, brushing his thumb over Oscar’s cheekbone in a gesture so familiar and dear that Oscar had smiled and leaned into it, ignorant and idiotic. _

He lay on the cot, notebooks and novels forgotten, and shut his eyes against remembering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of feelings about Trashy Fiction. And Oscar Wilde Quote Of The Day: 
> 
> "The good we get from art is not what we learn from it; it is what we become through it."


	5. Day 3: Zolf

Zolf dreamed of Hamid and Sasha. It was a recurring dream, one he’d had on and off since Paris, and he was familiar enough with the crushing choke of dirt and dust and the screeching of remembered pain in his legs that it only took him a minute or two, after sitting bolt upright in bed, to calm down. 

Sunlight filtered through the shuttered windows and Zolf realised that he’d overslept somewhat. He needed to get Wilde some breakfast, go back down there and… cheer him up, he guessed. 

He was still vaguely unsettled by Wilde’s reaction to the novel. He’d been so certain that Wilde would have been as disdainful as Hamid, but Wilde’s warmth, Wilde’s genuine interest and engagement in the plot had unbalanced Zolf even as it had delighted him. _ Was it a sign that Wilde was starting to change? _He quashed that thought down as soon as it started to surface.

Wilde was fine. Wilde wasn’t infected. 

Zolf needed to check on that any way.

He busied himself with breakfast. Ryu gave an exasperated sigh when Zolf got in his way in the kitchen (the first of the villagers were filtering in, and Ryu had work to do) but Zolf knew Ryu got as much out of this arrangement as they did (protection from Shoin, not to mention a great deal of money) so didn’t let it discourage him.

Wilde was asleep when he came down. That was… surprising. Zolf could count on one hand the number of times he’d had to wake Wilde up and it had nearly always been because they had been switching watches on the road. The man avoided sleep like it was some sort of plague, the mere mention of it enough to make him groan and frown. Zolf had no doubt that had he the magic means to avoid it altogether he would have done just that, and ended up like one of the poor saps he’d sometimes had to treat in the temple in London, before he’d branched out into mercenary work, bleeding from the nose and ears because they thought cure fatigue could substitute for a basic biological function.

(The curses that Wilde had suffered in Damascus had been different, from the little Zolf had gleaned of them, Wilde had been able to sleep, but the nightmares had been visceral and draining and damaging in ways that they still couldn’t identify. There was a reason he still wore the shackles to bed each night, after all.)

Zolf set the breakfast tray down and stepped forward. There was no way he could be stealthy down here, not when the legs didn’t articulate properly, and his movement was enough for Wilde’s eyes to blink open. They went immediately wary and Zolf swallowed, resisting the urge to hold out his hands to show that he wasn’t a threat.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said instead. “Grub’s up.”

Wilde sat up, looking a little groggy. “Sorry,” he said. “I… think the last few days have finally caught up with me.”

“Sleep’s the best thing you could be doing right now, for that to heal up properly,” Zolf said, nodding to Wilde’s face. Wilde poked his tongue into the wounded cheek and Zolf saw him grimace as the stitches pulled against skin, then shrug.

“Here,” he passed the tray through and Wilde took it, sitting down and beginning to eat with that same mechanical thoroughness.

“What’s the plan for today then?” Zolf said. 

“Well after the strip show I suppose we could try book club again,” Wilde said. Zolf winced. It should have been funny. Normally it would have been, but the remnants of Zolf’s dream and the look on Wilde’s face when he’d left him down here last night laced the words with bitterness.

“I can find you something else to do,” Zolf said, and he couldn’t keep the resentment out of _ his _voice and he saw Wilde’s fingers tighten on his chopsticks and a muscle work in his jaw.

_This was all going wrong,_ Zolf thought to himself as Wilde swallowed the last of his meal and looked up at him with eyes that were utterly hollow. He held Zolf’s gaze for a second, then dropped his eyes to the tray.

Zolf saw him take in a long shuddering breath, then let it out slowly through his nose.

Then he threw the tray against the wall. 

There had been a ceramic bowl on it, and a teacup, both of which shattered against the stone, the noise loud enough for Zolf to jump and take a step back, but Wilde, aside from the sudden, violent jerk of his arm as he made the throw, had not moved at all. 

Another breath, from Wilde, before he stood up and started removing his clothes.

Zolf should have said something, but Wilde’s movements were smooth and controlled and as graceful as they ever were, and he had a job to do, and the set of Wilde’s jaw told him that any attempt to comfort him would be met with the same stony silence.

Zolf swallowed, then approached the bar, softly telling Wilde where he needed to stand so the light could show his skin. Wilde was pale enough that the blue veins would be easy to spot, darker and slimmer than the lines of Wilde’s own veins which had always been visible at those vulnerable points of wrist and neck.

Delicate, unmarked skin. The skin of an aristocrat (although Wilde had laughed at Zolf when he’d called him that, saying a few words in gutter Irish that sounded as though they came from another person entirely, the exact meaning behind them unknown but nonetheless very clear)

_ My Irish accent was one of the first things I lost at Oxford, Zolf, although definitely not the last. One can cast off one’s past as easily as one changes one’s clothes, were you not aware? _

When the inspection was over Zolf tried to say something but his mouth was dry and what came out at first was a croak and Wilde fixed him with an intense stare. “You’re fine,” he said, swallowing to clear the unexpected dryness. “It’s fine,” he said, more softly now, reaching up one hand to rest it on the mesh of the cage. Wilde stepped back, as though Zolf were the caged animal and Wilde was the one in danger. “I’ll get you something to sweep that up, if you like.”

Wilde looked down at the mess on the floor for a moment, then let out a soft sigh, his shoulders slumping.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t sound sorry at all.


	6. Day 3: Oscar

Oscar tried very hard not to remember the dreams that had plagued him in Egypt. Suffice to say they had been horrific enough, full of named and nameless horrors from his past and his ever-over active imagination, that for the first month after they’d found the solution to his sleeping problem he had felt sick at the mere sight of a bed.

Sleep had never come easily to him in any case, and it was simple enough to fall back into the habit of sleeping only when he absolutely needed to once the initial crushing exhaustion of that month had passed.

Before he met up with Zolf, back in Cairo, he’d studiously ignored the small, exasperated sigh he sometimes thought he heard when he turned his back on whatever bed he was supposed to sleep in that night and lit another candle to continue to work. If he kept his eyes on the page and didn’t blink too often he didn’t see an after image of a large, kind face bathed in a rosy pink glow telling him to take care.

He was fine, after all.

Zolf didn’t stand for it, though. Zolf had cast create water on him one morning at his desk when he’d found him in exactly the same position he’d left him, the candle burned to the quick and the ciphered papers from the Damascus factory spread all over the floor and it was only Oscar’s quick reflexes that had stopped the water from ruining three days of work.

Zolf had threatened to do it every morning he found him there.

The ensuing shouting match had almost made Curie reconsider pairing them but in the end, no one else was willing to work with Wilde and looking back with more honesty than he would usually apply to his own self-analysis, Oscar couldn’t really blame them.

The dreams were bad again. He had to remind himself that he was in an anti-magic cell the fourth time he woke up gasping (not screaming, no, he’d trained himself out of that in Damascus) and understand that this time the horror and the terror was coming from nowhere but himself, the images of Hamid and Sasha and Grizzop and Azu, dead and dying, the soft afternoons in his London flat with Alfred that turned into many eyed and many mouthed monsters, the creeping blue veins over his skin bursting forth and spreading to Zolf, engulfing him while Zolf watched silently, accusingly…

...they all came from his own head. Nowhere else.

If it was still his own head, of course.

He fell into a deep and dreamless sleep just before dawn, finally worn out by his thrashing. Waking to Zolf’s obvious concern was disorienting and Oscar felt unbalanced, on a tipping point. 

“Sleep’s the best thing you could be doing right now, for that to heal up properly,” Zolf said, and something… snapped.

_ Get some rest, Oscar. _

_ Are you all right? _

_ Take care of yourself Oscar. _

_ You’re just going to die. _

He didn’t make a conscious decision to throw the tray. There was just a space, where a reaction should have been, an emotion. Any emotion. And he hadn’t tried anger yet.

The crash made Zolf flinch.

Zolf was here for a reason, of course, and it was better to get this over with first thing. Really he didn’t know why they bothered with breakfast first. Tomorrow he’d just strip off as soon as Zolf got down here. Or maybe he should just stay naked - it wasn’t as though the cell was cold, the damp humidity of the island never quite slid into coolness at this time of year. 

Zolf was afraid, Oscar realised, as he turned and lifted arms and tilted his head so Zolf could see his neck. Afraid of him or for him, Oscar couldn’t be certain, but he pronounced Oscar clear and Oscar should have been happy about that, except that he wasn’t. He couldn’t afford to be. Not yet.

“I’ll get you something to sweep that up, if you like.”

It was going to be awful enough in here without the leftover rice and tea attracting ants or rodents. “Yes,” Oscar said. “I’m sorry.”

He wasn't.

#

He dressed while Zolf was gone and took a deep breath, trying to find some kind of centre. By the time Zolf came back he’d probably managed to make it half way to equilibrium, and he took the cloth and broom from him and cleared the sad pile of detritus his childishness had wrought, handing the broken pieces back out through the bars.

“That was… undignified of me,” Oscar said, as Zolf bagged the trash and set it in a corner to take up with him when he left again.

Zolf shrugged, noncommittal. “It’s not like you’ve got a lot of outlets,” he said.

Oscar let out a snort. “True.”

Zolf took his place in his seat. He had a book with him, Oscar noted, but he made no move to open it, just leaned back and looked at Oscar. “Apology accepted, by the way.”

Oscar bit his lip, then looked around the cell, feeling a lot like insects were crawling under his skin. He picked up the next of the Campbell novels, not even bothering to read the title, and started to flick through it, eyes landing on random words and phrases, utterly unable to find anything he could focus on.

Zolf said nothing, but picked up his own book and began to read, occasionally glancing over the top of it at Oscar.

Oscar shut the book and put it down. Zolf raised an eyebrow.

“Are we going to do this all day?” Oscar asked.

Zolf’s smile was a little kinder, some of the hurt from Oscar’s previous words having faded. “Unless you have any better ideas?”

Oscar sucked in a breath through his nose. “We could play cards?”

Zolf’s smile faltered a little, then he shrugged. “Wait here,” he said. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Oscar called after him.

Not his best work.

When Zolf came back down he was struggling with a fold out table and a large wooden box. Oscar raised an eyebrow, recognising it.

“You said you’d teach me,” Zolf said, by way of explanation, setting the Go board down on the table and pulling his chair up next to the gap in the bars. “And this will be easier than trying to deal cards through a slot in the bars. You can just tell me where you want me to put your pieces.”

They wouldn’t have to touch, was what Zolf meant, and Oscar felt his hands twitch.

“I barely understand the rules, Zolf,” he said.

“Then maybe I’ll have a chance at beating you,” Zolf replied. 

_ Challenge issued. _

_ # _

They played for an hour. Then two. Zolf was remarkably quick on the uptake and after the first, trial game, was making headway in isolating and surrounding Oscar’s pieces, to the point where Oscar was having to think harder than he had in a game since Barnes and Carter had left on their latest mission. (Barnes was excellent, most definitely better than Oscar. Carter was utterly terrible.) Oscar found his attention drifting as they played, though, watching Zolf’s eyes focused on the board, his broad hands picking up and moving the white and black beads precisely. 

“Wilde?” Zolf said, one hand, scarred slightly across the knuckles (that must have happened before Zolf started using divine magic, difficult to imagine a youthful Zolf getting scarred that way, in the navy, possibly, or in training for it, fisticuffs in the barracks, or just carelessness…) 

Oscar blinked. “Sorry,” he said. “You’ve put me in a difficult position here.” He indicated where Zolf should put his latest token, close to completing a surround of one of Zolf’s smaller forces, but felt his attention wander again as Zolf did as he asked. His head was swimming a little, he realised then, and there was a dull ache in his cheek he’d been ignoring since he’d woken up (somewhat distracted, he knew). He swallowed, blinking, and tried to focus back on the board, which seemed to be blurring in and out of focus.

“Wilde?” Zolf pushed his chair back from the table and approaching the bars. He heard Zolf swear under his breath, then turn to get the lantern, holding it up closer to Oscar’s face. Oscar nearly cried out at how bright it was, wincing away. “Gods,” Zolf said. “Your cheek.” Oscar blinked, confused, and Zolf shook his head. “This is my fault. I should have… Wait here.”

Oscar lifted a hand and touched the skin around the stitches on his face. It was puffy and hot and he could feel fluid seeping out.

_ Oh. _

That  _ wasn’t _ good.


	7. Day 3: Zolf

Zolf nearly stumbled on the way up from the basement, only catching himself once he was through the doorway and he felt the not-quite hum and snap of his legs coming to life again out of the anti magic field. He didn’t even do his customary wince and stretch, too focused on what he needed for Oscar.

That was the problem with magical healing - had always been the problem with it. People relied on it so utterly that they forgot there were complications when it wasn’t available. He should just yank Oscar out of the cell, bring him a few feet out of the range of the anti magic and  _ fix  _ the damned cheek, smooth over the wound, make it so the scar was barely visible. 

Maybe if Oscar got delirious enough he’d even let him.

Until then he’d have to use his actual medical knowledge and hope that Oscar was together enough to follow instructions.

They had no healing potions in the inn - there were no clerics or paladins on the island and their small supply had gone out with Carter and Barnes, but he  _ could _ get a message out.

Messages were monitored by Curie though, the mobile stones were all linked, and any message that Zolf sent out would be questioned. Carter and Barnes were easily dealt with. Curie less so, and the last thing Zolf wanted getting back to the Harlequins was any information on one of them possibly being infected. He made some mental calculations. Alfred had arrived three days ago, Carter and Barnes had been due to return today or tomorrow. Zolf could risk the message, risk informing the entire Harlequin network that Oscar was potentially compromised, or he could wait.

He boiled water and grabbed sake and decided a healing potion could wait until Carter and Barnes returned. Oscar was strong enough to fight off a minor infection for a day, and if the worst came to the worst Zolf  _ would  _ knock him out and drag him past the anti magic barrier. He wasn’t going to let him die before they knew if he was infected or not.

He wasn’t going to let him die, full stop.

When he got back downstairs Oscar was sitting on the cot, head resting in one hand. “Hey,” Zolf said and Oscar looked up, swallowing hard. “Carter’ll be back tomorrow. He’ll have a healing potion and you  _ can  _ drink that without any chance of me getting infected so you bloody will, all right? In the meantime you’ll need to wash that out again and bandage it up.”

Oscar let out a breath, then nodded and got to his feet. He was unsteady for a second, but Zolf saw him swallow hard and come to the bars, reaching for the sake and the cloths and the water and getting back to the bed without spilling anything. 

“It’s gonna hurt,” Zolf said, bluntly. “A lot.”

“What doesn’t, these days,” Oscar muttered, pouring sake onto the cloth and slapping it against his face in an entirely too haphazard fashion.

His cry was muffled by the cloth and Zolf had to stop himself from unlocking the cage right there. 

“Gods, Oscar,” he said. “Be a little bit gentle with yourself.”

Oscar drew the cloth away, gingerly, blinking and breathing hard. The look he shot Zolf was positively venomous, but he did take a little more care the second swipe he took at the wound.

“Use the mirror, make sure you get the sake into every part that’s inflamed.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Oscar said, but his words were slurred somewhat - the puffiness of his cheek interfering with the movement of his lips. He did get the mirror out though, and Zolf didn’t fail to notice the slight wince as he looked at himself.

His face did look a mess, but Zolf knew that if the stitches held and the infection didn’t get too far along (gods let Carter come back on time) he’d probably end up looking quite rakish. 

When Oscar was done and the wound was covered Zolf passed tea through the gap. Oscar took it, looking up at Zolf. 

“There’s a sedative in it,” Zolf said. “Something to reduce the fever. You need to sleep.”

“Get me enough of it to sleep the next five days?” Oscar said, downing the cup in one go then swigging out of the sake bottle. 

Zolf pursed his lips. “I’m that much fun to be around, huh?”

Oscar took another swig of the sake. Zolf considered telling him that wasn’t a great idea, but it was too late to take it back now. “You know I don’t mean that,” Oscar murmured. “You’re a delight, Zolf. Always have been.”

“Hmph,” Zolf tried to ignore the small flash of warmth in his chest at that. “Get some sleep,” he said instead. “Carter will be back tomorrow, we can get you properly healed up.”

Oscar rubbed a hand through his hair, then nodded, corking the sake bottle and placing the remains of the first aid gear on the chair next to the cot. He lay down, with a small groan, and shut his eyes. 

Zolf dimmed the lantern and sat back on his chair. He wouldn’t go upstairs tonight, just in case.

#

Zolf must have fallen asleep at one point. It was a good thing he’d brought the more comfortable chair down, he had time to think, when he was startled awake by a sharp intake of breath from Oscar, almost a sob.

“Oscar?”

He heard Oscar sniff, shift on the cot, then sit up. “Yes,” his voice sounded ragged, dragged from somewhere far away inside him.

“Dream?”

A deep breath. A nod. Zolf thought he'd lie down and go back to sleep again, was about to tell him to do just that, when Oscar looked up and fixed him with an unreadable stare. There was something of a question in it, something like need. 

“I didn’t tell you about Grizzop, did I?” Oscar said. 

“The goblin?” He hadn’t, really. Not much. Zolf had never met the paladins, only heard their names in passing, added to the list of the people they’d all lost. Names that were only important to Zolf if you counted their connection to Hamid and Sasha; unless you counted the fact that they had only been there to protect and heal the people Zolf had abandoned.

“Yes.”

“You said he saved your life,” Zolf said.

Oscar made a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Against his better judgement, I do think. He also punched me in the genitals once.”

“Sounds like a goblin after my own heart,” Zolf said.

“He was a little more direct about hating me than you ever were.”

“I didn’t think I was indirect at all.”

“No, but…” Oscar sighed. “He shouldn’t have ended up dead, Zolf. I sent him to Rome. The others… they had their own choices to make but Grizzop wouldn’t have gotten there if I hadn’t helped.”

“He wanted to go,” Zolf said. “He wanted to go and help his friends.”

“And now they’re all gone."  They were too close to it. The box being opened. And the hard ball of hurt that he’d thought he’d teased out these past months was still there, gods was it ever. He wasn't an idiot. He knew he needed to tease that ball open and Oscar knew enough about it, knew _him _well enough that they could possibly start to heal if they'd just...

“If I’d stayed with them, back in Prague maybe…”

_ “Don’t.” _

Zolf sat back in his chair and ground his teeth together.

“If we’re going to do the whole self blame thing it’s not fair if it’s just you.”

Oscar laughed, a soft, bitter sound. “No. I suppose it isn’t but I'm the one…”

There was noise on the stairs and Zolf stood up, as quickly as he could, reaching for his cane. He didn’t have his glaive with him, which made him curse, he was just guarding Oscar after all and even if Oscar turned (he wasn’t going to, because he wasn’t infected) he couldn’t get out of the cage and Zolf would have time to…

...do what needed to be done.

It wasn’t a threat though, Zolf could see well enough once he got to the doorway and saw the two men silhouetted in the faint light from the inn upstairs.

“Oh dear,” Carter said as he took in the tableau. “What did  _ you  _ two get up to while we were gone?”


	8. Interlude: Howard Carter

There were a lot of things Howard Carter hadn’t liked about Cairo. Getting a spike through the leg was probably at the top of the list, together with losing enough treasure to finance an entire lifetime’s worth of expeditions, but before he’d even gotten that far he’d gotten cursed and been in a bar brawl, so in general Cairo hadn’t been a high point for him, emotionally. 

But at least Cairo wasn’t  _ wet. _

Sand was infinitely preferable to mud, in Howard’s opinion, or at least it was right now, as they trudged through the mud and muck towards the inn, exactly no clue closer to how they were supposed to get across to the Shoin institute despite days of sitting in cramped warehouses and trying to make sure Barnes didn’t clink loud enough for Shoin’s men to hear him.

“You’ve been muttering under your breath for the last mile and a half,” Barnes said, calm voice cutting through the constant, heavy thudding of the rain.

“Could have been rich,” Howard said. “Could have taken  _ half  _ that damned bag and run to Russia. You know there are meant to be some amazing historical sites in Russia? Untouched by sentients for centuries. Not even the Meritocrats know what’s over there…”

“Sailed along the Russian coast for a year or two, back in the day,” Barnes said. Barnes was barely out of his  _ teens.  _ Howard was one hundred percent sure half of the stories he told were lies. Except that Barnes could lie better than Howard if that was the case and he didn’t like to admit that there was anyone out there who could do that. “Once saw a purple worm. You think it might have been guarding one of those temples of yours?”

“Pfft,” Howard said. “Purple worms don’t exist.”

“No? Thirty foot tall? Purple scales? Loooots of teeth. I mean. More teeth than I’ve ever seen in one place before. Enough teeth I reckon,’ Barnes paused, calculating, “to build a couple of ships out of. Easy.”

“Prob’ly not a purple worm.”

“Ah. Some other thirty foot purple tooth monster then.” 

Carter hated Barnes sometimes.

“A ship made out of teeth would sink,” he said, sulkily. 

“Probably,” Barnes said.

The inn was lit, but not busy, at least not as far as they could see from the outside. “They’re not going to like the report,” Howard said, slipping off his boots at the entrance.

“When do they ever?” Barnes said.

Zolf wasn’t anywhere in the taproom but they found Ryu alone, for a change, in the kitchen. Usually Zolf was there as well, interfering with whatever Ryu had decided to cook. Barnes spoke better Japanese than Howard (something that Howard would also never admit) and after a brief conversation that Howard couldn’t follow he turned to Howard looking puzzled and not a little alarmed.

“They’re downstairs,” Barnes translated, and Howard raised an eyebrow. There was only one reason for them to be downstairs - someone must be in the cell. 

There hadn’t been any talk of new agents coming from Cairo when they left, but instant teleportation did tend to mean when things moved from Cairo, they moved quickly.

“Which poor sap is enjoying our hospitality tonight then, do you think, Barnes my man?” Howard said as they made their way down the stairs to the basement.

“Someone from Cairo,” Barnes said, predictably. 

“Oh. Really? You think so?”

Barnes understood sarcasm perfectly well, but never, ever reacted to it.

Zolf was standing in the doorway, looking a little worse for wear, but he had nothing on Oscar, who looked like a cat had attacked him and was also, more notably,  _ locked in the cell. _

“Oh dear,” Carter said. “What did  _ you  _ two get up to while we were gone?”

Zolf held up a finger. “Don’t. Start.”

“Too late,” Barnes muttered. 

“I need a healing potion,” Zolf said, holding out a hand. Howard looked at Barnes, who looked back at Carter. “Just give it to me, Howard, or when we get back upstairs I’ll drown you in the bath.”

“You don’t need to do sacrifices any more,” Howard said, pouting, but reached into his bag and pulled out a potion.

“In this case it wouldn’t be a sacrifice,” Zolf said as he snatched the bottle, “more of a hobby.” He turned back to hand it to Oscar. “Here,” he said, more soft and gentle than he ever sounded when he was talking to Howard. “Drink it.” Howard looked at Barnes, who raised an eyebrow.

They were so  _ sickening  _ sometimes.

“How many days?” Howard asked.

“Today was day three,” Zolf said, not turning around, watching to make sure Oscar drank the potion. Oscar was being uncharacteristically quiet, something that Howard would normally be grateful for, but right now was a little unnerving.

“Any signs?” Barnes asked.

“None.”

“Have you told Curie?” 

“No,” Zolf said, and Howard saw Oscar give Zolf a look. “Let’s see it then,” Zolf said, and Oscar started to remove the bandages on his face. Howard felt Barnes’ hand on his arm, tugging him away. 

“Not the way I thought that would go, if it was going to go at all,” Howard said, once they were out of earshot. “There’ll be no living with him if Oscar turns.” 

Barnes sighed.  “If Oscar turns we’ll have a lot more to worry about than Zolf being sad,” he said.

“I suppose there would have been no living with Oscar if it had gone the other way too, though, come to think of it.”

“As bad as each other in that regard,” Barnes agreed.

_Sake,_ Howard thought, _is definitely needed. Lots of it. And right now._

_ Gods, they were stupid bloody idiots.  _


	9. Day 3: Oscar

They’d both forgotten about the wound by the time Carter and Barnes had left.

“Why haven’t you told her?”

“Because there isn’t any reason to!” Zolf hadn’t sat back down. Oscar kept wanting to tell him to, worried about how his legs must be hurting without the magical support, but there were more important things, more  _ urgent things  _ to discuss. “If you’re…” Zolf said, “if this is… you’re not but…  _ even if you were it wouldn’t... _ ”

“There’s a procedure in place for a reason, Zolf,” Oscar said, trying to keep his voice calm.

“And I’m following it!” 

“You’re supposed to tell her if one of us is compromised.”

“You’re  _ not compromised.” _

Oscar bashed one hand flat on the bars, hard enough that it stung.  _ “You don’t know that!” _

Zolf looked like he was going to shout again. Oscar could see his hands clenching and unclenching by his side. He was breathing heavily through his nose, obviously trying to control himself and Oscar… 

_ Gods, Oscar wanted to hold him. _

He swallowed, mouth suddenly completely dry.  _ Oh. _

Oh.

He didn’t just want to hold Zolf. He wanted to… he  _ needed… _

But he couldn’t do that.

Ever.

“Wanting something to be true isn’t enough,” he said instead.  _ Wanting something isn’t enough, Oscar. It never has been. It never will be. You know that. _

Zolf hadn’t noticed. Zolf  _ couldn’t ever notice.  _ “I don’t do that any more,” Zolf said, not shouting, but his voice was higher pitched than usual, more desperate. “I’m not giving in to it, all right? That’s the whole point… the whole reason for…” he made a gesture at his hair and his legs “... all of this. Poseidon was a great big watery git but  _ faith  _ isn’t stupid, Oscar. Hope isn’t stupid.” He let out a long breath.

“You need to tell her,” Oscar said. “She needs to know.”

Zolf bared his teeth. “No,” he said. “Curie wants us to tell her if one of us is compromised. Until I know that you  _ are,  _ no one else needs to know that you  _ might  _ be. It’ll only complicate matters.”

“Zolf you need to…”

“Guess what, Oscar! You’re in a fucking cell and you don’t get to give me orders. Also last I checked with you incapacitated or compromised,  _ I’m _ in charge. So I’ve got you coming and going and  _ don’t even think of making that pun.” _

Oscar rested his forehead on the bars, exasperated, laughter welling in his chest. It was probably hysterical. Definitely. He’d just come out of a fever, he was probably going to die soon, but…

But.

“What,” Zolf said flatly.

“Fine,” Oscar said. “Fine. You’re in charge. Do what you want.”

Zolf looked confused. “Okay. I will.”

“I mean it.”

“Good?”

“Seriously Zolf, I’m putting too much on you right now and I know that…”

“No… it’s well… you’re locked up and I… you don’t have to…”

“I mean it. It’s all right.”

“I  _ know  _ it’s all right I’m fucking standing out here and you’re in there and it’s all right because it has to be and…”

Oscar started to laugh. It was impossible not to, at this point. 

Zolf pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.  _ “Why _ are you like this?”

Oscar sucked in a breath. Let it out. “You love it,” he said, and Zolf looked up and caught Oscar’s eyes. 

And didn’t look away for a long, long moment.

“Go to sleep Oscar,” Zolf said, finally, softly, voice slightly rough around the edges.

Oscar swallowed, headed to the cot. Stopped. “You’re going to need to get Carter and Barnes’ report.”

“Yes.”

_ Stay here,  _ Oscar didn’t say.  _ I’m sorry,  _ Oscar didn’t say.

“Best do that then, since you’re in charge,” he said.

“Prat,” Zolf muttered, but Oscar could hear the smile in his voice.

Oscar lay down and closed his eyes, not expecting sleep, but there was a warmth in his chest and his middle, a knowledge that he hadn’t had twenty minutes ago, and something about that felt  _ right  _ in a way nothing had for  _ years _ .

He slept.


	10. Day 4: Oscar

He woke before Zolf arrived, having slept more soundly than he thought he had for years. There was no more pain in his cheek and he lit the lantern to examine exactly how bad it was.

A nasty scar, curling his mouth a little at one end and sweeping up to his cheek at the other. Of course Alfred had gone for his face. Perhaps there had been a little of him left there after all, to go for the one thing the old Alfred would have known Oscar cared about.

The old Oscar, any way. 

He practiced smiling and nearly laughed at the expression that stared back at him through the mirror. Oh well. He hadn’t had cause to use his  _ prettiness _ for anything in months.

Oscar washed and thought about asking Zolf to bring him down some extra clothes, the ones he was wearing were getting a little rank. A hand wash of his shirt and pants would do for now, since it was still warm down here and he was going to have to strip for Zolf any way. 

He was in the middle of washing the pants when Zolf arrived with breakfast. He raised an eyebrow at Oscar and Oscar shrugged. 

“I’m not one to wallow in my own stink,” he said. 

“I’ll bring you another shirt,” Zolf said, as Oscar draped the shirt and pants over a chair to dry. “And some more water. Inspection first then?”

Oscar nodded and stood, moving into the light nearest the bars. He hadn’t looked, hadn’t obsessively checked his arms and legs when he woke the way he had the last few days, and he didn’t really want to examine why that was, other than the low level understanding that dipping below the pleasant buzz of no pain in his face and a full night’s sleep would be a mistake.

As he turned and twisted, Oscar felt Zolf’s eyes on him differently. It was  _ his reaction  _ to Zolf’s gaze, and Oscar knew that he was being an idiot and he was being stupid and he needed to  _ not. _ He knew perfectly well that Zolf wasn’t interested in  _ anyone _ like that, not even Oscar, and had told him quite plainly when they’d first been paired. At the time Oscar had laughed, amused at the very concept. Now it felt somehow fitting. A deserved punishment for his stupidity.

Oscar was going to die without ever getting to touch anyone again, so he might as well spend his last days yearning for the kind of comfort he used to laughingly dismiss as extraneous, unnecessary, _emotionally compromising, _and why not yearn for it from someone who was utterly beyond his reach? It only made sense. It was only right.

He was leaning against the bars, a knot of feeling in his throat that wouldn’t budge, moisture gathering at the corner of his eyes.

“Oscar?” Zolf said. Oscar swallowed, hard, and shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. “Eat something,” Zolf said, and turned to pass his breakfast through.

The fourth day passed slowly and calmly, if it hadn’t been for the constant pressing need Oscar felt to scream out loud. 


	11. Day 5: Zolf

They spent the morning reading again, although there was something different in the atmosphere this time, something charged and unsaid. Oscar had seemed cheerful enough, at least at first, and Zolf was sure having new clothes did something for his mood. He caught Oscar looking at him, every now and then, over the top of his book, but they didn’t talk and the silence was companionable, really. Mostly.

He ventured back up into the inn at lunch time, intending to make food for Oscar, but Barnes waylaid him outside the kitchen and took him to Oscar’s office for a private word.

“Look, we talked about it,” Barnes said. “And we understand why you don’t want to inform Curie of…” he made a gesture downwards. 

“Good. Because it’s my decision.”

“I know how stubborn you are,” Barnes said. “Just… we wanted to let you know if it comes to it, you don’t have to be the one who…”

Zolf blinked. “What?”

“The one who takes him down,” Barnes said. “It doesn’t have to be you.”

It took a moment for Zolf to recognise the sudden flash of white hot feeling in his gut at Barnes’ words. 

_ “No,”  _ he said.

“Zolf, you know that if he turns out to…”

Zolf had his fists in Barnes’ shirt before he even realised it, pulling the other man down to his level. Barnes’ eyes were wide with shock but he didn’t pull back, didn’t try to push Zolf away. 

They stayed like that for a moment, Zolf breathing heavily, Barnes simply looking at him, one eyebrow slightly raised. Gods the man was infuriating, had always been infuriating, by the book and judgemental and so disgustingly  _ navy.  _

But it wasn’t Barnes’ fault that Oscar was locked up in a cell facing a death sentence. 

Zolf heaved in a shaking breath, forcing himself to release Barnes before he did something stupid. More stupid. “No,” he said again, less forcefully. “If it needs to be done I do it.”  The pity in Barnes’ eyes was stark and it  _ infuriated  _ Zolf but he stopped himself from punching the man. “Is that clear?” he said, finally. 

Barnes heaved a sigh. “You know you’re not being rational.”

“There’s nothing rational about  _ any _ of this,” Zolf ran a hand through his hair.

Barnes shook his head, resting one hand on the frame of the door and looking back at Zolf. He opened his mouth, obviously going to lecture Zolf about responsibility and obligation again, as if Zolf hadn’t had the same training as Barnes, as if Zolf didn’t have twenty years more experience in the field than him. “That’s not what I meant,” he said instead, and his voice was gentle, and a little sad. 

He left Zolf leaning against Oscar’s desk, heart still beating too hard against his ribcage, trying to contain the panic that had been bubbling under his skin for five days now.

Oscar was going to be  _ fine. _

Back in the basement, Oscar had put the book away and was writing in the notebook. Zolf blinked, standing in the doorway, just outside the anti-magic field, caught for a moment at the expression on Oscar’s face, intensely focused on the paper in front of him.

He wasn’t sure it took him more than a moment to step through the doorway, as if he was afraid of disturbing whatever state Oscar was in right now, where he seemed to be… content rather than despairing. 

He’d brought food, though. “Going to give Campbell a run for his money?” he asked, trying for a light tone as he fussed with the lunch tray.

Oscar didn’t look up from the book, but Zolf saw his lips twist in a smile at the sound of Zolf’s voice (so different from his old smile, now, distorted but...warmer somehow) as he finished what Zolf assumed was a sentence. 

He closed the book, smoothing long fingered hands over its cover and looked up. “I would not dream of impinging upon that good gentleman’s market share,” he said, standing up to take the tray. 

Zolf made a non-committal sound and sat in his chair. His legs were hurting more than usual, today. Even with the magic outside of the cell there were pressures where they connected to his flesh, and he found himself rubbing the join where metal met skin through his trousers with one hand as he ate his stew with the other.

“They’re bothering you,” Oscar said, when he passed his tray back through.

“A little,” Zolf said. 

“You don’t need to stay down here with me. I know the switch through the field is painful and with Carter and Barnes back...”

“You want me to send Carter down here to keep you company instead?” Zolf raised an eyebrow.

Oscar chuckled. “Gods no. Just please don’t… don’t make things worse for  _ you.” _

“They can’t really get much worse,” Zolf muttered, only half joking, then stopped, realising what he’d said. Oscar was looking at him, head tilted to one side, brows drawn together in concern. Zolf had a sudden, overwhelming urge, and he stepped forward, hand half raising as though he could follow through with his instinct to cup Oscar’s face, smooth a thumb over the rough edges of the scar, pull him into a hug and tell him it was going to be all right, he didn’t mean it, things could always,  _ always  _ be worse, after all.

Bars separated them more surely than circumstance had ever managed. Yet he’d never done it before the bars were there, either.

_ Rationality,  _ Zolf thought, bitterly.

_ That’s not what I meant,  _ Barnes had said, and of course Zolf understood that. Of course Zolf knew what both of them were talking about when they looked at Zolf and rolled their eyes and smiled indulgently when Zolf fussed over Oscar’s sleep and his ridiculous desire to personally oversee every step they took in their quest to save the world.

Of course Zolf knew his own heart.

Sometimes knowing something didn’t make a single bit of difference.


	12. Day 6

There was a kind of peace, in the waiting.


	13. Day 7: Zolf

Zolf woke early. Naturally. Far too early to go down to the basement straight away. They’d decided on early evening, for safety’s sake, as the time when Oscar could come out, which meant they had another whole day of waiting, another day of sitting and watching Oscar pace, or pretending to read, or staring at the Go board and utterly failing to formulate any kind of strategy.

Zolf shook his head and got out of bed, deciding he could at least make a good breakfast for them.

Ryu wasn’t even awake yet, so Zolf had free reign in the kitchen, humming under his breath as he worked. Supplies weren’t great at the moment, but he had enough to make ramen, taking extra care with the broth.

When he was done he took the tray downstairs, passing a disgruntled looking Ryu. Oscar was awake, writing in his notebook again. Zolf wanted to ask what he was writing but it felt intrusive somehow and he couldn’t formulate the words before Oscar looked up and raised an eyebrow.

“Early this morning,” he said.

Zolf shrugged. There was no point in pretending he was indifferent to the day. They’d kept too close a check on the time passing for either of them to bother lying about it.

Oscar set aside the notebook and started to remove his clothes. Zolf approached the bars and ran his eyes over Oscar’s skin, as familiar as his own, now, more so since it was a little difficult for Zolf to get a good view of his own back.

They ate in silence. Zolf set up the Go board. They played. 

“I feel obliged to say I’m going to miss this when we’re done,” Oscar said at one point, smiling at him through the bars. 

“You’re not, though.”

“No. Prison, for whatever reason, isn’t one of my favourite things.”

“Passed the time quite pleasantly in one, in Dover.”

“You never did explain why it took you so long to cross the channel. I was in Paris for a week before you got there.”

Zolf snorted. “That was actually Barnes’ fault, funnily enough.”

They fell into silence, save for Oscar softly telling Zolf where to place his pieces. Oscar won, in the end, and sat back, looking satisfied at the territory claimed, while Zolf puzzled over tactics. When he looked up, he saw Oscar was simply watching him, chin resting in one hand, an odd expression in his eyes.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Hmph. Sure.”

Oscar frowned, then shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, Zolf. Just thinking.”

Zolf tilted his head. “Don’t sprain anything.” Oscar let out a puff of laughter, and Zolf got to his feet, collecting the tray. He hesitated, turning at the door to look back at Oscar again, who hadn’t moved, whose chin was still resting on his hand, whose eyes were still fixed on Zolf with that same expression, one that Zolf couldn’t admit to himself he knew. “I’ll be back,” he said.

Four more hours and he could come out. 

“I’ll be here,” Oscar said.


	14. Day 7: Oscar

There was one last physical check, before Zolf could open the cell. This was the point, Oscar thought, his fingers on the buttons of his shirt, when it would all fall apart. This was where his grip on his sense of self faltered, when the first of the blue veins would spread across his skin.

But there was no hiss of indrawn breath from Zolf, no sudden sound of him turning away, no murmurs of concern or distress as he carried out his inspection and when Oscar turned back, Zolf was smiling at him. 

“Told you you were fine,” he said, his voice cracking. He coughed a little, then turned to get the keys to the cell from their hook by the side of the stairwell. “Put your kit back on Oscar, you’re a free man.”

Oscar swallowed, then did as he was told, pulling his boots on just as Zolf slid the key into the lock. Oscar watched, feeling more than ever as though there were ants crawling under his skin, as though there was something they’d forgotten, some reason why this wasn’t going to work, that he’d have to stay, that Zolf would have to leave. _ Something _ was going to change when he stepped out of the confines of the cell he’d been in for the last seven days, something was going to break, or _ mend _or some inconceivable confluence of the two. 

The door swung open and Zolf held out a hand. Oscar swallowed again. “You’re sure?”

“Protocol’s been followed, Oscar,” he said, calmly, softly, his eyes crinkling at the sides. “Unless you really like it in there?”

“Company’s been quite nice,” Oscar said, with a small, nervous laugh.

Zolf made a beckoning motion with his hand, tilting his head, catching Oscar’s eyes with his and smiling, and the smile was so fond, so exasperated, so _ Zolf _that Oscar felt tears pricking at the edges of his eyes. “Come on, Oscar. It’s all right.”

He reached out and grasped Zolf’s hand, felt Zolf tug him forward, gently, as though he was leading a blind person, as though Oscar was made of glass, as though Oscar was the most precious thing he’d ever touched. Zolf’s hand was warm and calloused and Oscar laced his fingers with Zolf’s without thinking, breath catching in his throat as Zolf pulled him forwards into a hug, wrapping both his arms around Oscar’s middle. 

Zolf was solid and warm and his hair tickled the skin at Oscar’s throat and Oscar could feel the puff of his breath against his shirt and the curve of his lips in a smile even as his face was awkwardly smushed into what Oscar realised was probably a shirt that didn’t smell too great at the moment.

“You’re okay,” Zolf said, voice muffled by said shirt, and Oscar’s arms tightened around his shoulders. The hug was going on too long. He knew that intellectually he needed to step away, but the sheer comfort of Zolf in his arms was going to his head like strong drink and he felt almost like he had in the fever, hot and cold and weak at the knees. He could feel Zolf start to chuckle and Oscar shut his eyes and held on tighter for a moment, daring to press his lips to the top of Zolf’s head. Zolf smelt like woodsmoke and teriyaki sauce and sandalwood soap and safety and Oscar wanted to bury himself in that smell and never come out again.

Zolf made a small, contented noise, and his fingers splayed on Oscar’s back, pressing a little as though he wanted Oscar to come even closer. As though he were getting as much out of this contact as Oscar, touch starved and desperate as he was. He should step away. He’d told himself he wasn’t going to do this, wasn’t going to hurt Zolf, let himself _ want _ something he shouldn’t and he _ needed to stop _.

He couldn’t bring himself to move, and Zolf’s arms around him did not loosen. 

Time had meant too much for two long, Oscar realised, and now he was losing his understanding of it, because he couldn't have begun to guess how long it was before Zolf tilted his head to look up into Oscar’s eyes. There was a question there, one that Oscar knew they’d been asking each other for far longer than these seven days. It was a question that had gone unanswered, because the world was falling to pieces, because there wasn’t _ time, _because neither of them knew what the next day would bring or whether it would even come.

Oscar dipped his head forward, _ done _ with unanswered questions.

Zolf brought up one hand to cup the back of Oscar’s neck, half for support and half to bring Oscar closer. It really was a stupid amount of distance, for Oscar to reach Zolf’s lips with his, for him to sigh with relief that he could finally acknowledge this was what he needed.

Zolf gave a small hmph of approval and rocked upwards, pressing himself closer. Oscar followed his lead, deepening the kiss and gently backing Zolf up against a wall, careful of his legs, supporting him as best he could with one hand on the small of Zolf’s back and the other threading through Zolf’s hair.

The kiss was an acknowledgement. An answer. An apology. It was a lot more than that, Oscar thought, with the small part of his brain capable at the present, the small part that wasn’t completely swallowed up by the rough feel of Zolf’s beard against his skin and the soft slide of his lips.

He didn’t know how long it was before they broke apart, (time again, without meaning). Oscar let out a long breath, the tension leaking out of him so much that he let his head rest on the wall above Zolf, who was looking up at him, eyes bright, lips still moist, mouth crooked at the corner in what was an altogether too knowing grin. 

Zolfs hands still rested on Oscar’s hips and Oscar was entirely too distracted by the gentle weight of them, but there were things he had to say, things that were important, and he wasn’t allowed to _ not _articulate them. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be okay with that,” he said.

“Mmm,” Zolf said, eyes crinkling at the edges. “ I thought it was common knowledge that all sailors love a good snog.”

Oscar snorted. “Yes. Well. Consider yourself privileged to have experienced one of the best.”

Zolf pretended to consider it and Oscar let out a soft laugh, reaching up to smooth one hand through the hair at Zolf’s temple. Zolf’s eyes fluttered shut and it was all Oscar could do not to kiss him again, cup his face in his hands and never let go. _ Focus, Oscar. _ “I meant that… what with my... _ reputation _ and your stated preferences…”

“I’m not about to bang you on the floor of the cell,” Zolf said, and Oscar laughed again. “Not this cell any way. I’d like at least full use of my legs before we… explore the extent of our compatibilities.”

Oscar straightened more and tried to step back, but Zolf’s hands slid down his forearms to hold Oscar’s hands, stopping him. “It isn’t a good time for this,” Oscar said.

Zolf shook his head, thumbs gently rubbing back and forth over Oscar’s hands. “No,” he said. “It really isn’t.”

“I shouldn’t have put that pressure on you.”

Zolf shrugged. “To be fair, it isn’t a one sided thing. And don’t look like that, I’m old enough and ugly enough to tell someone to back off if I don’t want their attention. I don’t kiss people out of pity.”

“Not even when they’re pitiful?” Oscar asked, and Zolf punched him lightly in the stomach. Oscar smiled, lopsidedly, then reached up to cup Zolf’s cheek, brushing his thumb over the cheekbone. “We’ve got a job to do,” he said. 

Zolf covered Oscar’s hand with his and pressed his lips to Oscar’s palm. “Mission comes first,” he said, voice low and soft. 

Oscar nodded. Leaned down to kiss Zolf again, and Zolf smiled against Oscar’s lips and Zolf wound his hand in Oscar’s shirt and Zolf let him forget, for a moment, that there wasn’t time for this.

_ That was fine. _

###

_ The Disciple _

_by Oscar Wilde_

_When Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of_ _sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping_ _through the woodland that they might sing to the pool and give it __comfort._

_And when they saw that the pool had changed from a cup of sweet __waters into a cup of salt tears, they loosened the green tresses of __their hair and cried to the pool and said, 'We do not wonder that __you should mourn in this manner for Narcissus, so beautiful was __he.'_

'_But was Narcissus beautiful?' said the pool. _

_'Who should know that better than you?' answered the Oreads. 'Us __did he ever pass by, but you he sought for, and would lie on your __banks and look down at you, and in the mirror of your waters he __would mirror his own beauty.'_

_And the pool answered, 'But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on __my banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw __ever my own beauty mirrored.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done. Thanks guys, again. As always the journey wouldn't be fun without you along with me.


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